Moving like the wily fox he used to resemble, pre-paternal midriff spread, Jamie Oliver has swiftly taken advantage of the current travails of his nearest competitor, Gordon Ramsay, to make his most blatant bid to become the UK's top lifestyle brand. This week Oliver launches his own magazine, called Jamie and not, sadly, Geeza. He insists it won't be "yet another cooking mag" by which one can only infer that the magazine lives up to its name - it's about the man. Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas are more details about the Oliver family. Every other month.

Oliver is clearly looking to two Americans for inspiration - Martha Stewart and Oprah Winfrey - both of whom have their own eponymous lifestyle magazines. But, as those of us who have a subscription to Oprah's O magazine know, for this kind of lifestyle branding to work, it has to be done in a way that isn't screamingly smug.

This isn't easy. You need to convey the message that you live a life to which the rest of us should aspire, yet remain sympathetically fallible. Only rarely does Oprah invite viewers of her show into her enormous home. Mostly she stays on the sofa, tactfully dealing with Tom Cruise's lunacy or rolling her eyes at her ongoing failure to lose weight ("I can't remember when I last ate a bagel!" she burst out during an interview with the Olsen twins last month, much to their confusion - they had clearly never considered eating one). Hers is a superior magazine that, like the woman, is a combination of palpable smarts and endearing warmth.

Stewart could certainly be described as "fallible", having been to prison in 2004. But her no-nonsense tips are so good, both for the kitchen and the home, that not even the electronic anklet she had to wear after her release broke her stride. Both Stewart and Winfrey reveal just enough about their personal lives to give the illusion of intimacy, but not so much you want to punch them.

The Olivers, on the other hand, seem to have little to offer besides themselves. In the first issue there are interviews with Jamie's famous mates (Brad Pitt and, um, Dexter Fletcher) and a column from his indefatigable wife Jools, whose last attempt at writing included detailing the strength of her husband's sperm in her book, Minus Nine To One.

It's hard not to feel that magazine publishers have missed a trick here. What about Nigella? A monthly update on Charles Saatchi's nine-eggs-a-day diet versus Jools' maternal witterings? No competition.